


Never Can Say Goodbye

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [3]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clingy Hutch, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drug Addiction Recovery, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag: The Fix, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Starsky, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: Hutch dreads opening his eyes when the car stops, not sure he wants to see the place he was kidnapped from, the place he thought he was safe, his own home with his garden and—But they’re at Starsky’s house, closer to the center of town, industrial, different. Very Starsky. Very safe.He makes a fist and then releases it, his thigh bouncing. He’s hungry, but doesn’t want to eat anything. He doesn’t remember the last bite of food he managed to keep down, and feels like a stiff breeze could knock him over. Maybe Starksy will let him sleep in the car. Maybe he should go for a run.It comes as a surprise when the door opens on its own and Starsky’s face swims before his eyes. His eyes remind him of Jeanie’s eyes, and Hutch immediately feels guilty about that.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a long car ride home, via the precinct, with Forest screaming obscenities at him in the back seat, but by then Hutch is so out of it he barely notices. At some point Starsky must have whispered something threatening enough to shut Forest up, or maybe he slept through Starsky taking him in. Funny how he doesn’t remember Starsky leaving at any point. 

Hutch is so lost in his thoughts, and dozing on and off, that he doesn’t really notice where Starsky was taking him until they arrived. He had kind of figured hospital, but he was grateful to Starsky for skipping that stop. He dreads opening his eyes when the car stops, not sure he wants to see the place he was kidnapped from, the place he thought he was safe, his own  _ home  _ with his garden and—

But they’re at Starsky’s house, closer to the center of town, industrial, different. Very Starsky. Very safe. 

He makes a fist and then releases it, his thigh bouncing. He’s hungry, but doesn’t want to eat anything. He doesn’t remember the last bite of food he managed to keep down, and feels like a stiff breeze could knock him over. Maybe Starksy will let him sleep in the car. Maybe he should go for a run. 

It comes as a surprise when the door opens on its own and Starsky’s face swims before his eyes. His eyes remind him of Jeanie’s eyes, and Hutch immediately feels  _ guilty _ about that. 

“Come on partner,  I’m gonna make you some soup and toast. A couple nights drifting weightless on a waterbed’ll fix you right up, right?” Starsky asks, reaching in to help Hutch out. “Or did you want me to take you back to that alley and you can sleep on top of a wall like a cat, huh?”

Hutch huffs. No, he doesn’t want to go back on the wall. He’s absurdly worried Starsky will get tired of dealing with him and go put him back there, but he  _ is  _ aware that that’s the shakes talking. He tries to keep the mood light by teasing, “You have a  _ waterbed _ ?” 

Whatever his mouth manages in a smile doesn’t reach his eyes, though. 

“Sure, best night’s sleep you’ll ever have.” Starsky is worried, still. Not so much about Hutch’s recovery—that’s going about as good as can be expected, actually. More for his partner’s heart and soul at the moment. He helps Hutch out of the car, leaning their bodies together because Hutch still feels weak as a kitten. “You’ll be fine. Just let me take care of you, huh?”

For an instant, Hutch thinks Starsky is shaking, and then he realizes that that’s him. He grips his partner’s shirt and lets him take his weight, grateful for it. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m sorry.”

He blurts that out too soon, trying to say too much in it.  _ Sorry for being a burden. Sorry for throwing up on you. Sorry for hating you when I just needed a hit. Sorry in advance for anything else I might try to do, or break, or say, that I don’t mean. Sorry for Jeanie _ . Except he doesn’t have the strength to say all that right away, so he just nods and lets his partner lead him inside. He’s still tender and bruised, but Starsky’s arms are strong and warm and stable. His touch feels good, even on the bruises. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Starsky assures him, trying pretty hard not to feel any resentment toward Jeanie while at the same time feeling a darker sort of emotion like he’d maybe won the whole jackpot. She’d walked away, which meant Hutch was all his again. It wasn’t really how Starsky  _ wanted _ to be reassured about how things were going to work out between them.

Up the stairs seems to take everything out of both of them, honestly. Hutch is heavy, Starsky hadn’t slept well the last couple nights, and both of them had spent the day running around anyway. So Starsky gets him inside, and though his place is a little cluttered in a way that speaks a lot of how easy it is to distract Starsky from one thing to the next, it’s clean at least. He gets Hutch settled onto the couch, then goes to bring him a glass of water.

“You think you can handle some chicken soup and a little toast, partner, or you just want a little more coffee?” Starsky asks, crouching in front of Hutch. 

Hutch finds focusing on Starsky to be the only thing that settles the rapid thumping of his heart. He watches Starsky’s hands, follows his movements, tries to count the stubble along his jaw. His eyes go soft, hungry, admiring. He messed up. He should have fought Forest’s men off better. Maybe he should have never gotten serious with Jeanie in the first place. 

But Starsky asked him a question, and Hutch puts his hand over where Starsky rests a hand on his knee. He’s grateful for the water, but it might be a bit much, so he sips it slowly. “Nah, ‘m fine.” 

Hutch knows he’s going to get hungry—and angry—in a minute, probably, and it’ll be for another hit, not for food. He can only hope that he’ll fall asleep before that happens. Starsky looks so worried, and Hutch can’t face it, so he turns away. 

“Hey, hey,” Starsky says, catching hold of Hutch’s free hand and kissing the backs of his knuckles. “I’ll cut you a deal. You don’t have to eat now, but in the morning you owe me a try, alright?” 

“Okay,” Hutch says, trying in vain to think of a food that appeals to him and coming up blank. 

Reaching down, Starsky helps pull off Hutch’s shoes, and then his socks which have definitely seen better days, and then looks Hutch over and gives him a ‘wait a minute’ gesture before going to get a good clean set of PJ’s for him; just sweats and a clean T-shirt, but it’ll be more comfortable than his clothes, and Hutch could use nothing more than a little comfort right now. 

“Sorry the legs’ll be a little short,” Starsky says, as he takes Hutch’s coat. “You coulda stopped growing three inches sooner.”

Hutch manages a laugh at that. Starsky’s brief disappearance made him anxious, as he began to wonder if Starsky was a really realistic trip, but he's back now, so he can relax enough to laugh. They work together to get him into fresh clothes, and the clothes smell like Starsky, and that helps more than anything. It maybe even settles his stomach somewhat. He grins. “You've never complained about my extra inches before.”

“And I’m not complaining now,” Starsky assures him, pressing the blandest granola bar he could find in his cabinets into Hutch’s hands. “Just trying not to get scandalized by your bare ankles.”

Giving Hutch a suggestive motion with his eyebrows (not quite a  _ waggle _ , maybe, but close), Starsky offers him some orange juice next. “You wanna stay for a few days? Just until everything smooths over? I can call Huggy and have him stop in to water your plants.”

Hutch tears his eyes from Starsky’s with an effort—he wants to soak up all that tenderness and concern like a plant soaks up sunlight—to look down at the granola bar. “No…” 

Juice, however. Juice he can maybe handle, and he takes a few tentative sips. “I mean, no, don’t worry about the plants. Huggy’s done enough for us.” 

Also, he hasn’t gotten up the courage to ask how long he’s been away from home. Maybe the plants are already dead. “Yes. I wanna stay.” 

Heartened, he takes a bigger drink of the juice, and immediately regrets it, as it hits his stomach and seems to come straight back up. At least when he’s sick, he vomits all over the pile of his filthy clothes, and there’s not very much in his stomach to get rid of, anyway. 

“Boy,” Starsky says, rubbing Hutch’s shoulder. “They sure did a number on you, huh? Well, those assholes died in an alley, and you’re still kickin.”

Maybe that last bit’s as much to reassure himself as Hutch. Starsky doesn’t often swear, but this situation seems to warrant it. He gives Hutch a reassuring pat, and eases him back, letting him lean against the couch while he cleans up, carrying the whole soiled pile of clothes first to the sink and then taking them downstairs to the washing machine in the garage he lives over. 

“Sorry,” Hutch says, when Starsky gets back. Both of him, standing there with matching worried frowns. Hutch wants to reach out to him, wants to make him happy, just  _ wants _ . 

“Well, you tried, and that’s all I can ask for,” Starsky says. “You want me to go raid a farm for some goat’s milk, since you’ve trained your stomach to accept that, somehow?”

It’s mostly a tease, but all Hutch has to say is yes and Starsky would do it. 

Hutch smiles, because he’s too exhausted to laugh. His eyelids blink, slow and heavy, and at least the desire to crawl out of his skin is tempered by his complete inability to move. “Maybe in the morning, partner. Thanks.”

Now Hutch is just thirsty, and he’s sweating, but he’s worried he won’t be able to keep the water down, either. 

“Juss need to sleep, Starss,” Hutch slurs. Maybe he’ll feel better if he can just sleep. 

“Alright, into bed,” Starsky tells him, helping Hutch into the bedroom and down onto the wobbly water bed and helping him get comfortable. At least it’ll be nice and comfortable, and Starsky makes sure there’s water right next to him on the bed-side table, and the granola bar’s in reach, and then Starsky covers Hutch over with blankets to combat the on-and-off shivering he’s been doing and crawls in behind him to cradle their bodies together.

“Dizzy,” Hutch murmurs, but the world does eventually stop moving, and, God, Starsky is warm, and grounding, and it feels good to be held by him now, instead of cloying and oppressive. (It still might, again, later, if his body decides it needs something he won’t give it.) 

“Just remember the worst’s behind us,” Starsky murmurs against Hutch’s neck, holding him tenderly, not too tight to keep from bothering his stomach. “It’s all easier from here, babe.”

“Yeah. Easier.” Hutch tugs the arm closer, tight against him. Secure. Warm. He tries to tell himself it’s the only drug he needs, however trite that is. He can sleep like this. “You okay, Starsky?” 

But he falls asleep before he hears the answer. 

“If you’re okay, I’m okay,” Starsky assures him, counting sheep slowly until his own breathing evens out and he can sleep, too, reassured that Hutch is safe and here and  alive.

…

Hutch wakes before Starsky, automatically, his body still in this old habit of wanting to get up, go for a run, and come back to drink a goat milk smoothie for breakfast. But now it feels like the morning routine of another person. 

Once he resigns himself, though, to being a laze-a-bed, the position is comfortable and the company is nice. Starsky snores, but softly and steadily, and it’s a good reminder that he’s here, if the arm and half a leg thrown over him weren’t enough. Hutch even has to admit that the waterbed does feel like he’s sleeping on nothing at all.

He still feels like shit, and every inch of his skin feels sore. He wonders if psyching himself up to eat will help. Maybe he can start with water—but attempting to get up on one elbow to reach the glass of water beside the bed is too much for his body, and makes his brain and stomach roll in dizzy protest. 

It wakes Starsky halfway, who makes an almost indignant and sleepy noise as if he can’t comprehend why anyone would choose to open their eyes while it was  _ still dark _ , but it’s Hutch, of course. The only person Starsky knows who enjoys getting up early. 

“Okay, partner?” Starsky asks, when he notices Hutch is holding very still. Also, the water on the nightstand seems to be what he was going for, so Starsky shifts, a gentle rolling motion that suggests he’s got a lot of experience with the water bed, and hoists Hutch up into his lap, steadying both him and the glass. 

The ocean is choppy, again, and Hutch holds on for dear life until it settles, and when the clouds break, Starsky is there. Reliable as the sun coming up in the morning. He’s leaning back against Starsky’s chest, and can feel his heart thudding under his head. 

And water, oh, God, water. Hutch thinks he could drain the whole glass that Starsky is helping him hold, but he listens to his stomach this time, and in return his stomach doesn’t rebel. 

“Take it slow, okay? You’re four days down now,” Starsky reassures Hutch, brushing his sweat-sticky hair off his forehead, before he presses his mouth there, soothing, and eases two of his fingers against the pulse point under Hutch’s chin, checking up on him. “Boy, I wouldn’t want to be you when Dobey hears about our week’s vacation with no warning.” 

It feels like Starsky is holding him together with his fingers, every touch like the story of the little Dutch boy holding back the flood with one finger. He isn’t sure what he has to do to make sure Starsky keeps on touching him, so he moans softly in what he hopes is an appreciative tone. 

He rubs Hutch’s shoulders as he drinks, and takes a moment to fortify himself against this. He wants to kill the people responsible all over again. 

“Four days?” Hutch says slowly, after he’s taken another small sip of water. Somehow it seemed longer. The world is coming into focus, from the sleep, maybe, and the water. He now feels less bleary and heroin-addled and more just weak. He coughs. “Thanks for...staying with me, Starsk.” 

“Yeah, four days of withdrawal,” Starsky reminds, patient. “Think about it. Even the meanest, hardest addict can bounce heroin in seven, so I figure we’re in the home stretch, even if your stomach doesn’t agree with me.”

Hutch feels like could just relax like this and fall right back to sleep. He nearly lets go of the glass of water, which Starsky barely rescues. It’s not a question, but a statement, when he says, “What would I do without you.” 

“Same thing I’d do without you,” Starsky says, cheerful despite the hour. He carefully pets Hutch’s flyaway hair back into some sort of order. “Be half as good a cop and not get into half as much trouble, right?”

Hutch grins and nods. “Sounds about right.” 

Starsky has a sip of water himself, and then yawns and puts the glass back on the bedside, leaning his head back and watching them both in the mirror above, his hands absent on Hutch’s body, but reassuring. “Besides, don’t think you’re gonna get off easy for this. Every time I need a candy bar, I can remind you I saved your life until you hand over your change.”

“Well that’s one way of keeping me straight,” Hutch chuckled, closing his eyes. “You take all my money.” 

“For a certain definition of straight,” Starsky agrees. 

Hutch shifts his hand until he finds Starsky’s leg, and squeezes his thigh, fingers working over the same spot, almost twitchy. He turns his head like he can hide against Starsky’s chest. “Just gonna sleep for—maybe five more minutes.” 

“Alright, five minutes,” Starsky says, with a second yawn, bigger this time. “I’m timing you.”

He keeps his hand moving over Hutch, absent but reassuring both of them as they drift back off, eventually going still and stopping as their breath evens out again. It’s not five minutes, more like five hours, and when they wake up again it’s almost noon, and Starsky is starving, but loath to leave Hutch behind. Finally, considering that Hutch is breathing deep and looks like most of his color is coming back at last, Starsky gently disengages himself and goes to get busy in his kitchen.

Maybe he’s not making chicken stock from scratch, but he makes a pretty good facsimile of his auntie’s chicken soup, so he gets to work on that. A little sodium and broth will hopefully start to set Hutch to rights. 

Hutch wakes knowing he's safe by the smell of the room. It's Starksy's place, and he's comfortable here, safe, like he doesn't have to worry about a thing. Except that Starsky isn't  _ here _ .

He hears distant sounds like cooking, but Starsky never cooks, and now Hutch is paranoid. 

Getting out of bed is a struggle, and he mostly ends up on his knees on the floor and wants to puncture the waterbed. It leaves him shaking and sweating, and he takes a drink of the water while he's here before getting up on trembling knees. The room swims, so he leans on walls as he goes. 

He realizes too late that he should have brought a blanket, but going back is out of the question. He'll be lucky if he makes it...wherever he's going. 

“Starsk?” he calls, when he finds himself in the den instead of the kitchen, and decides he's lost. Shit. Wasn't he feeling better a minute ago?

“I'm in the kitchen,” Starsky calls back, but Hutch sounded closer than he expected, so he leaned back out of the doorway and found his partner in the den, and shook his head a little, abandoning his wooden spoon to come help Hutch up into one of the two chairs at his tiny kitchen table. “Here, I’m making soup. Just relax, babe, alright?” 

Hutch smiles dopily at Starsky. Strong, handsome, talented Starsky.

“My hero,” he murmurs, listing to one side in the chair until he gets his face against the cool wall. Too cold, but his face is hot. 

Hutch is still pretty loose and tired looking, and Starsky would bet that’s mostly from being unable to eat. He produces another glass of water for Hutch. “You decided to go on a journey, huh? I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.”

Hutch watches the water, distantly interested, but his arm doesn’t get the memo, so he just sits there, giving everything a blank stare until his eyes light on his partner again, and he smiles. Okay, that’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt. 

He relaxes against the wall, too weak to shiver. 

Starsky is genuinely starting to worry, now, so he takes the soup off the burner and wets down a cloth to mop Hutch’s forehead gently, looking Hutch in the eyes, worried that they’re not really focusing.

“Okay, you're starting to worry me,” Starsky says, picking up the water to help him drink. “You gotta be dehydrated by now, partner. You wanna try some soup?”

Hutch drinks automatically, determined to do anything Starsky asks him to, because he sounds so worried and pained. Truthfully, no, he does not want soup, but says, “Yeah, I'll give it a try. Smells good.”

Starsky is starting to think about the hospital, and about maybe how if it gets any worse, Hutch should go get IV fluids, even though he'd hate it, and hate getting looked at like a junkie. 

“Hey, look at me,” Starsky says, pressing the cool cloth to Hutch's forehead. “You're gonna be okay. Drink a little more, alright?”

The cold cloth feels good, and Hutch sighs softly at it and closes his eyes, before realizing that Starsky wants him to look at him. He does, focusing on the only part of the room that doesn't seem to be spinning, and that's the tired eyes of his partner. He's solid and grounding and real, in a reality where Hutch isn't sure what real is anymore.

“Yeah. I'm okay,” Hutch agrees, wanting to reassure Starsky, too, and even helps support the cup this time. His stomach is accepting the water, and this seems like a good sign. His saliva still feels thick and gross when he swallows, though. “Don't—go anywhere, okay?” 

He doesn’t mean to sound so small.

“No sir,” Starsky agrees, not moving even a little. “Keep drinking real slow, partner.”

Hutch nods, not taking his eyes off Starsky. On some level, he’s worried about his partner, worried because Starsky’s worried. Mostly, though, he’s just glad that Starsky is taking care of everything. 

Rubbing Hutch’s legs seems to distract him just enough, and after the third or fourth swallow with no sign of gagging, Starsky feels a little better, like he’s the one who needs to keep something down. He notices that Hutch is shivering, and reaches out into the den to pull the little throw blanket off the arm of the couch, though he really has to stretch for it, and then settles it around Hutch’s shoulders.

It makes Hutch grin: how gentle tough, macho Starsky can be, one, and two, he didn’t mean (or doesn’t think he meant) he didn’t want Starsky to get out of arm’s reach, but maybe he did. He’s grateful for it, and the blanket. 

“Alright, how’s your stomach? You wanna try some of my auntie’s chicken soup? I know I’m a terrifying chef but I promise I didn’t even try to spruce it up this time,” Starsky says, still crouching by Hutch, staying right where he can be seen. 

“Yeah,” Hutch says, straightening his shoulders a bit, steeling himself. He gives Starsky a lopsided smile. “You’re a good cook. Just so many—strong flavors. For my, ah. Delicate midwestern palate.” 

“No strong flavors this time,” Starsky says. “A little rosemary, some chicken stock, and a little extra black pepper for your sinuses.”

He ladles a very small amount into a coffee cup for Hutch, still steaming. “Plus, egg noodles. Go on, try it.”

It does smell good, and doesn’t make his stomach roll immediately. His hands are shaking, but he lifts the mug to his mouth for a sip of broth. He brightens again. “Hey, you even put some vegetables in this.”

But he sets the mug down, leaning forward on the table. “I’m sorry. Still feel like shit.” 

“It’s alright,” Starsky says. “I feel that way about vegetables, too.”

He pours himself a helping of soup also and settles heavily into the other chair at his table, kicking his legs out straight as he feels the weight of the last few days on his shoulders. He takes a long sip of soup, watching Hutch, and then lays his other hand on the table, palm-up, offering.

Hutch wants to lay his face in Starsky’s upturned palm, but he puts his hand there instead, letting Starsky do the work of actually squeezing his fingers. There’s about three tablespoons of soup in his mug, and Hutch doesn’t think he can do it. 

“How horrible is it if I’m mad at Jeanie?” Hutch asks suddenly, before he knows he’s asking it. Of course he’s going to spill his guts now—better metaphorically than literally, anyway. 

“Well, what’s there to be mad about?” Starsky wonders, because Hutch should talk through this. There’s a lot to talk about. “The guys who did it are dead or in jail, and she never would have wanted it to happen.”

Starsky squeezes his fingers. “Lay it out for me, you’ll feel better.”

“Not—not mad,” Hutch sighs, too exhausted for this, and he’s trembling now, too, because he’s not mad at her but he’s  _ angry _ . “She went with Forest to—to protect me. She—they brought her to see me—strung out and—that bastard had her right where he wanted her because of  _ me _ .” 

Hutch breaks, though he isn’t sure why, face cracking into a sob that he covers up with his free hand. No wonder she broke it off between them. How could she ever look at him again, knowing what she let happen to her, thinking it would save his life? He wasn’t sure he could look at himself in the mirror ever again. 

“Hey,” Starsky says, squeezing his fingers tighter, his tone a little more raw and desperate. “Hutch.  _ Ken. _ Partner, that’s not your fault. You didn’t do that to her, and it wasn’t because of you, it was those dirty rat-fink jerks who thought they could get the better of Jeanie by trying to get the better of  _ you _ . But they didn’t, did they?”

Starsky gets up, coming around the table without letting go of Hutch’s hand, and pulls him against his chest without making him get up. Just holds on, lets him hide there against his beat up old t-shirt. “If it wasn’t you, there’d have been someone else. Maybe someone who’d have given her up at the first flash of trouble. She knows that.  _ I _ know that. You know that too, huh?”

“But—I-I  _ did  _ give her up,” Hutch sobs. He knows, academically, if it had been run-of-the-mill torture he’d never have given her up. But they had tricked him, weakened him, and when he didn’t know friend from foe asked him again, and he told them where she was. Something he hadn’t even told Starsky.

Starsky reaches down with his free hand, still warm from holding his cup of soup, and rubs Hutch’s back in broad circles, just encouraging him to let it out; the frustration and fear and sadness. Hutch had every right to feel those things, no matter how little Starsky liked it that he had to. 

Hutch doesn’t have much to cry: he’s too tired and his body too dehydrated to even produce tears, but he just presses his face into Starsky’s belly and dry-sobs until there’s nothing left, focusing on where Starsky’s hands are rubbing life back into him. Half a minute and he’s done, and feels better. As better as he can feel about this. 

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” he says eventually. “They’d’ve found her, anyway, maybe. Or. I’d be dead. And she’d have to live with that. Like I have to live with…”

Hutch sighs and shakes his head, giving up, dropping his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Starsk.” 

“Hey,” Starsky says, reaching down to tip Hutch’s chin up to look him in the eyes, brushing his thumb over his partner’s cheek. “There’s nothing to be sorry to  _ me _ for.”

There is, there's a lot, but Hutch doesn't want to argue, clinging to Starksy as tight as he can. 

He leans down and kisses Hutch, maybe a little more chastely than they have been of late, but still heartfelt.

“I’m still here,” Starsky says. “And  _ you _ didn’t run away to Vegas, even if I thought for maybe a weekend or two you might. So we’ve got that, right? Maybe it didn’t all work out the way either of us wanted it to, but I know you’re coming back to me, and you know I’m here for you, too.”

The kiss nearly makes Hutch burst into tears again. Starsky is too good to him, and too good for him. 

“They'd’ve had to kill me to keep me from you,” Hutch says fiercely. He means it to be comforting, but it is, he supposes, a morbid thought. “Thanks for—looking for me. For finding me. For being here now.”

“Hey, you’re my  _ partner _ ,” Starsky says, like that explains everything.

He wants to go back to hugging Starsky, but they both need to eat, so Hutch reluctantly lets him go and turns back to the table, feeling better, though he may not look it. 

He stares down the table. He's going to eat this soup, and he's going to drink this water, and then he's going to follow Starsky wherever he wants to go and fall asleep beside him, like a very loyal dog. But first he has to manage three mouthfuls of soup.

“It’s just a little. It’ll help you get your strength back,” Starsky says, finishing his own cup. “And it’s not half bad. I’ve definitely made worse.”

Hutch huffs. “Can I have a spoon? Do you even own spoons?” 

It’s a gentle jab, and when Starsky brings him the spoon, Hutch eats the soup without any more trouble than a trembling hand.

When Hutch has managed the small amount of soup, Starsky feels better yet again. He refills the cup and only insists Hutch has one more sip, and then another little bit of water, and then he helps Hutch back into bed. “I don’t wanna hear anything about how my soup made it worse.”

“Nah, I feel better,” Hutch insists, glad at least he hasn’t vomited again. “Thanks, partner.” 

He tucks Hutch in, fusses over the orientation of the blankets, and then sits on the box frame of the water bed and watches him, trying not to let his concern show. There’s the logical part of him that knows Hutch is going to be just fine; he’s going to kick this and be back on his feet and then it will all be behind them like a bad stain. In the moment however, he can’t stop thinking about how close it must have been. How easily (if not for how amazing Hutch is) it could have been different. 

These same thoughts had plagued him the first day, in the little apartment up over the Pits, with the smell of nothing but coffee and sweating and the shakes in his nose. He could have lost Hutch, and then where would he be? Starsky brushes Hutch’s hair gently back off his forehead. “Don’t worry about hitting the gym today, huh?”

“Ha,” Hutch says, feeling safe and utterly warm and comfortable, and relaxed, and yet he can’t close his eyes. He’s gazing up at Starsky like just the sight of him—his unkempt curls and soft T-shirt, the beauty mark under one eye and the smile he’s wearing that’s trying to be brave—is making him better. He unearths a hand from the blankets and curls his hand loosely around Starsky’s. “Can you hang out...nearby?”

_ Like, in this bed with me?  _ he wants to add, but doesn’t. 

“Are you asking me if I can get back in bed with you and sleep?” Starsky laughs, but he eases down onto the bed anyway, sinking down into it with a gentle rocking motion. “I’ve dreamed of this day. A day you didn’t wake me up at four and want to go jogging.”

Easing his arms around Hutch feels like the most natural thing in the world. “So yes, I will spend all day in bed with you.”

Hutch gives him a pity-laugh, recognizing what Starsky actually means under the joke. But before Starsky can even begin to feel like he might be the needy one, Hutch rolls over and curls into Starsky’s arms, throwing an arm and a leg over him and burying his face under his partner's chin. He wants to shift to get really comfortable here, but he's out of energy for the moment, and just being skin to skin with Starsky is comfortable and comforting. 

“You better take advantage while it lasts,” Hutch teases, voice muffled as his face presses against Starsky’s chest. 

“I know a golden opportunity when I see one,” Starsky agrees, pulling Hutch closer and draping one of Hutch’s legs up over his side so they’re both pretty comfortable. True to his words, he closes his eyes, and when Hutch’s breathing is slow and even, he joins him in sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yeah, we're going back up to the Explicit rating. What was I thinking...

When Hutch next awakens, he’s in a different position than he fell asleep in, and doesn’t remember moving or being moved, but he’s hemmed in on both sides now, his head pillowed on some part of Starsky’s body. Hutch is not overly concerned with which, or even with waking up fully. He knows Starsky is here. 

Hutch hears sounds of people talking softly, and he wonders if Starsky is on the phone before he decides: no, TV. Starsky has a TV in his room? Maybe it’s a radio. He supposes he hasn’t spent much time in Starsky’s bedroom before today, so he wouldn’t know. 

He feels Starsky shift, and run a hand through his hair, and Hutch realizes he’s lying in his lap, between his legs. As awareness filters in, he recognizes he’s on his side, head resting on Starsky’s thigh. It’s an intimate position, even for them: Hutch trusting Starsky to shield him from the world, Starsky trusting Hutch not to roll his head back and crush his balls. 

Hutch wakes up smiling. It is a TV: a small, black and white piece at the foot of the bed. 

“You know it’s supposed to be bad for you to have a TV in the bedroom,” he accuses, surprised by how soft his voice is. 

“You say chile’s bad for me too,” Starsky murmurs in answer, looking down at Hutch instead of the TV. His fingers stay tender on Hutch’s cheek, in his hair. “But I’m still kicking around.”

Starsky shifts just a little, enough to pull the blanket higher up Hutch’s shoulder, as he watches whatever baseball game is on the TV, paying half attention. “Besides, this is educational, right?”

Well, some of it is. Starsky finds the way the flickering grey-blue light passes over Hutch’s features almost as mesmerizing as the game; the way his eyes show the reflection of the universe in miniature. “How do you feel, partner? You wanna try a little more soup?”

Hutch stretches, moving carefully, finding himself stiff and sore, but sore like he’s lain in bed all day, which he has. The bruises from Forest’s goons aren’t as tender anymore, nor are the emotional bruises—he’s with the person he belongs, now. “Yeah, I could try some more soup. Unless you have any...I dunno, yogurt? Or some of that juice? If you got any spinach, and a blender, I could make a smoothie.” 

That sounded  _ really  _ good, actually.

“Maybe some goat’s milk?” Hutch asks, face breaking into a smile that stretches the scabbing cut on his cheek. 

“I got bananas and strawberries,” Starsky says. “And yogurt and a blender. That sounds more like a smoothie to me, but uh, maybe I could find some dessicated liver kicking around in my cabinets.”

“Ha ha,” Hutch says rather than laughs. “I’ll take whatever you got, buddy.” 

Smoothing the cut with very gentle fingers, Starsky puts Hutch’s hair back in order, and then transfers him onto the bed. “You wanna wait here or are you gonna come after me again?”

“I’m gonna come. With you,” he adds, with a wry grin, and then runs his tongue around his mouth. “But, ah, I think I wanna...brush my teeth first.” 

But just sitting up has taken a monumental effort, and Hutch’s vision swims. He considers trying to power through it, but there’s nothing macho about fainting on the way to the bathroom. 

“Okay, ah,” he clears his throat. “How about I make you a deal? You help me get to the bathroom and back, and you can feed me anything you want.” 

“Deal,” Starsky says, reaching down to help Hutch up, slinging one of Hutch’s arms over his shoulders to help him in where he can lean on the counter. “Stay here, brush your teeth, use the potty if you have to. I’ll make you a smoothie and come back and get you, okay?”

Starsky steps away, then pauses, and leans back, making sure Hutch is following his instructions, and adds, “I brought your overnight kit, it’s on the counter there. I wouldn’t try to shave yet, though, if I were you.”

“Look at you, you angel,” Hutch exclaims, finding the kit laid out on the counter. He doesn’t keep a toothbrush at Starsky’s, the way Starsky has a toothbrush at his place. Maybe he should start. “Thanks, partner. I got it from here.” 

He rubs his chin and calls after Starsky when he shuts the door, “I’ll let you shave me later, how’s that?” 

Not that there’s much there: it’s light colored and fine. It would take him months to grow a proper moustache. 

Hutch is quick in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face, and he doesn’t actually remember the last time he took a piss while in his own head so, ah, it’s oddly nice to know he hasn’t forgotten how. He’s still dehydrated, though, and drinks some water from the tap in the sink. He throws on a little deodorant, because Starsky has been through enough already, and, feeling stronger, a little more human, makes it back out to the bedroom before he has to take a rest. Yeah, okay. He needs food, and to start moving around a bit. 

Hearing the blender going in the other room, Hutch checks the clock: five-fifteen. Starsky really wasn’t kidding about being in bed all day, and Hutch hopes he was taking care of himself, too. Needing to check on this, Hutch makes his way back out to the kitchen—and doesn’t get lost this time. Bonus.

“Hey,” Starsky says, finishing up with the blender and pouring the results into a nice tall glass for Hutch. “I told you to stay!”

Hutch grins. “You gonna make me?” 

There’s something about Hutch’s eyes being just a little bit brighter, his posture a little straighter, and it looks like he washed his face and made an effort at a good clean-up, so Starsky doesn’t scold him too much, instead passing Hutch the glass while he finishes cleaning out the soup pot he’d used earlier that day and rinses the blender jar in the sink. 

“You look a hell of a lot better, you know,” Starsky says, smiling at Hutch. “You had me worried there for a little while.”

“Yeah, partner, I know,” Hutch says, reaching for Starsky. His voice is still soft, and he has to set the glass down after every drink, but he almost feels human. The smoothie is even awakening his appetite. “You manage to look after yourself at all these past few days?”

“Sure, I could use a shower and maybe a beer, but I’ve been just fine,” Starsky says, reaching out to take Hutch’s hand. “I’m fine.” 

At least it looks like he finished the soup. “Anything you want for dinner, I’ll take some, too. And my treat. Ah. Probably. Did my wallet turn up in any of this?” 

“Yeah I have it,” Starsky says. “It was still kicking around in the back of that car those goons were driving. Your badge was even still there, so that’s lucky. Let’s do something nice and gentle for dinner, huh? I’ll do eggs and toast. Won’t even put any hot sauce in.”

Hutch looks up at Starsky like he hung the moon and the stars, and could stop and start the world turning if he wanted to. “Yeah, Starsk, that sounds great. If you’re sure that’ll be enough for you.”

“Honestly, it sounds good.” Starsky produces his lone frying pan from the cabinet over the stove, sets it on the burner, and moves about his kitchen with the confidence of someone who can at least feed himself comfort food.

Hutch’s appetite really has awakened by the time his partner sets a plate before him, and he almost asks for seconds, except that he doesn’t want to push it with his guts. He feels immediately stronger, and if he gives into a craving for some of the candy Starsky has lying around, well, it’s better than the other kind of craving he could give into. 

“You mind letting me stay over another night?” Hutch asks, over a game of checkers after dinner, while they eat candy and drink coffee because his partner doesn’t even know what tea is. Starsky has one foot resting in Hutch’s lap, and Hutch massages it absently. The proper order of the world is restored by Hutch slaughtering his friend at the game of strategy. “I’m still on the fence about the waterbed thing. I either love it or hate it. King me.” 

“Aww, come on,” Starsky says. “Doesn’t form any pressure points, and it’ll gently rock you to sleep at night. Like a baby. It’s heated, too. Besides—” 

Starsky pauses to put the restored checker on top of Hutch’s other checker, and doesn’t even seem to mind that he’s losing. In fact, Starsky’s paying way less attention to the game than to Hutch, who looks more like his old self every minute. Starsky’s faith in the world is restoring itself. 

“It’s cleaner. You ever seen a dust mite swim?” 

Hutch smiles, loving how Starsky can always make him smile, and leans forward to kiss his friend, his more-than-brother, his boyfriend, really kisses him for the first time since things got serious with Jeanie. When they part, Hutch has quite forgotten what they were talking about. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

Starsky leans back, finding his hand in the middle of the checkerboard, and his heart thumping like the first time he'd ever been in love, and then after an awestruck moment, he grins.

“You can thank me like that any time, partner,” Starsky laughs. “You wanna see what else a water bed is good for?”

Hutch is already laughing when they tumble into bed, rolling around like a they're on a choppy sea, and Hutch feels doubly at a disadvantage in the unfamiliar territory. 

It's when he looks up that he  _ really _ laughs, though. 

“What’s so funny?” Starsky asks, trying to discern what Hutch’s source of mirth is, aside from being alive, safe, and on the mend. 

Hutch can’t stop laughing for several minutes, but gets enough air to point above him and say, “Starsky, buddy, you don’t need a  _ mirror  _ on the ceiling to impress me!” before he dissolves into laughter again. It’s so kitchy and so  _ Starsky  _ and actually Hutch hopes he never gets rid of it, and just as Starsky’s frown deepens toward something that’s about to get actually offended, Hutch tapers off with a sigh. 

“Come here,” Hutch says, holding out a hand, and tugging Starsky down on top of him. “Maybe I should give it a shot first, huh? Maybe checking out that gorgeous ass will help me change my mind.”

“See, you haven’t even seen the advantages,” Starsky mutters against Hutch’ s mouth before kissing him again, pushing his palms over Hutch’s chest to hike the t-shirt he’s wearing (one of Starsky’s old, soft ones) up so he can rub warm places over Hutch’s ribs, gentle, watching for any sign of bruising. “You sure you’re feeling up to this now? We’ll take it at your pace.”

He kisses Hutch’s belly, and then kisses his sternum as he reveals it, tracing his thumbs over Hutch’s ribs like lines of poetry he appreciates. 

Hutch smiles again, almost laughs, but it's a giddy sound, ticklish, instead of teasing, and he sucks in a breath as his body begins to warm to Starsky’s hands. He runs his fingers through Starsky’s thick curls, down his shoulders and arms, and back up. He feels mired in the waterbed, like he couldn't get away even if he wanted to. He definitely does not want to, and feels himself relaxing.

“Yeah, I'm—yeah, Starsk. Not sure how much help I'll be…”

“You don’t have to be any help at all,” Starsky says. “Let me take care of you, this time, huh?” 

He scrapes his teeth lightly over the dip of Hutch’s belly, then down, making a warm promise with his mouth, kissing heat over his belly button before he starts prying up on the elasticized waistband of Hutch’s borrowed sweatpants, easing them down over Hutch’s hips, and pushing a kiss against each hipbone in turn before he reaches down into the space between the waterbed mattress and the wooden frame at the head of the bed to come up with a condom. 

“Yeah,” Hutch offers, belatedly. He is mostly just watching Starsky, shifting as nudged or directed, and he sighs and licks his lips. Rather than pick up in anticipation, he feels his heart rate going down, eyes dark and heavily lidded. 

“I’m trusting you to tell me if you need to stop, right?” Starsky says, with his palm pressing over the interested bulge in Hutch’s underwear. “If you get dizzy or anything, we can take a rain check.”

Hutch chuckles, arching his hips into Starsky’s touch. He grinds out, “Buddy. I think if I get dizzy, you're doing everything  _ right _ .”

“Normally,” Starsky says, husky and breathless as he divests Hutch of his underwear in a slow motion that doesn’t send too many ripples through the waterbed, “I’d be inclined to agree with you, but in this case…”

Glancing up, after giving Hutch’s erect cock the once-over it deserves, Starsky gives his eyebrows a single upward motion that’s almost the equivalent of a shrug, before he presses a kiss just once to the underside of the glans and rolls the condom on.

However passive and relaxed Hutch thought he was going to be before, he groans and jacks up at the first touch of Starsky’s lips, wanting his hands on Starsky, too, and starting to get frustrated with this bed that he can hardly move in. He grabs the back of Starsky’s shirt and hauls it over his head, and struggles to shrug his own off, too. 

“Starsk,” he says.

“Just don’t pass out,” Starsky says. “Bragging rights aren’t that important to me.”

Hutch laughs. “You'd tell  _ everyone _ . You'd bring up the fact that we're fucking just so you could— _ Starsk _ !”

Starsky gets his mouth on Hutch proper, and he’s practically salivating just to get this far. This he  _ is _ familiar with, though rusty at, and he wouldn’t have suggested his one or two past experiences on the giving end were enough to qualify him as an expert, but Starsky’s no retiring flower either. He knows enough about what he likes to translate that to what he wants Hutch to experience, and if there’s a little bit of latex in the way, it just means Starsky works that much harder to map the whole head of Hutch’s cock with every part of his tongue. Flat and point and different pressures, until Hutch is gasping his name in the most alluring way and trying to find something to hold onto when the mattress under him is made of water.

Maybe now he’ll understand why the mirror’s so great; Starsky can’t make use of it, but he’s also figuring there’ll come a time when he really gets to see what it’s good for, if he can talk Hutch back into visiting. In the meantime, he’ll have to convince him other ways that it was worthwhile.

Hutch curls his hands into Starsky’s beautiful hair, rubbing his shoulders and his neck, and he moans, loudly. The waterbed cradles him, folds him in half, so he doesn’t have to use his own limited energy to sit up, to watch his partner work. Starsky’s mouth is hot and perfect, gentle but insistent. “Yeah. Starsky. That’s— _ God _ .”

His voice breaks, his legs beginning to tremble.  _ This  _ is that high he’s been chasing for four days, one he won’t feel guilty about after. 

And then Hutch looks up again, and he actually blushes and has to look away. Starsky is perfect and gold and dark, muscles rippling as he moves, broad shoulders curving into a narrow waist. But  _ he  _ looks debauched, face red and mouth open, and it’s almost a shock to see himself like this, to know how completely his partner affects him. It’s going too fast, and just fast enough. He needs this. 

“Starss—” he gasps, and says his name a dozen times, like a litany, and feels himself crest towards completion until he’s pouring himself into his partner, shaking apart and screaming, everything he wants and everything he needs. 

Sitting back only reluctantly, Starsky works the taste of wet latex out of his mouth with a sweep of his tongue, and kisses Hutch’s gasping mouth while he pulls the condom and ties it off, depositing it carelessly somewhere over the edge of the bed as he cradles Hutch against him, muttering wordless reassurance and sweeping his hair gently back into place. 

Hutch clings to him, and it might have been days ago when Starsky appeared to him like an angel in that alleyway when he didn't know his own name, and it might have been when they first kissed or when they first met for how glad Hutch is to have him and how grateful he is for him. 

“Starsk. Starsky,” he pants, and tugs him into a kiss, feeling relief flood through him. “Holy…”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Starsky says at last, looking down at Hutch like there’s an answer there in his dazed eyes and pleasure-slack features and there is, but it’s not to any question with real words. “Hey, all your color’s back.”

Starsky kisses him on the forehead, slow and sweet. 

“Your stupid mirror made me blush,” he laughs, embarrassed still, holding him close. 

“It’s a good look for you,” Starsky tells him, floundering around with his free hand until he finds a blanket to pull over both of them, bundling them up, curling his arms around Hutch as the waves from their movements subside. “But we can cover up the mirror next time if you’re shy.”

“It’s just a little kinky, that’s all,” Hutch grins, giving him tit for tat. “I’m a simple man, with simple needs. Why do you think I like you so much?” 

He opens one eye to check how the joke went over. 

Answering with a frank look that suggests Hutch’s joke flew like a rock, but he’s humoring his partner after a rough week, Starsky kisses Hutch’s temple. “You could use a little kink in your life. Why else do you do all that yoga?”

“To work  _ out  _ the kinks,” Hutch sighs, but he winks playfully. 

After a moment, Hutch lifts his head. “Hey, were you gonna—ah. Want to let me return the favor? Pretty sure my mouth still works, if everything else is a bit shaky.” 

“No, partner, I want you to relax and rest,” Starsky says, smoothing his hand over Hutch’s bare chest beneath the blanket and just easing and calming him. “You can owe me one. With extra kink.”

Hutch relaxes again, with one of those soft smiles, no less genuine for being smaller, reserved only for Starsky. 

“Sounds great,” he murmurs, slinging one arm around Starsky’s back and with the other tracing lines of his face, threading into his hair, squeezing his shoulder. “I love you, Starsky.” 

Hutch’s eyes have caught up with Starsky’s when he says it, and his voice has gone low with exhaustion. He lifts his head to place a kiss on the corner of Starsky’s mouth, and then his body cashes in the day’s exertions and his eyes close. 

“Love you too, you big galoot,” Starsky tells him, giving Hutch’s shoulder an affectionate pat before he reaches over to turn off the bedside light, feeling glad and grateful to have his partner back.


End file.
